


Blindside

by Sarie_Fairy



Series: Fictober 2020 [7]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, F/M, MSR, Trouble In Paradise, in the shape of Diana Fowley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:07:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26874151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarie_Fairy/pseuds/Sarie_Fairy
Summary: FICTOBER Day 7 - Prompt: “I’m not doing that again”
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Series: Fictober 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951573
Comments: 52
Kudos: 100





	1. Chapter 1

It had happened several times. The first, spontaneous—both of them tipsy—off the back end of a gruelling case. Each subsequent occasion—purposeful. Setting up and repeating the circumstances of the original: straight from the airport for a drink, or three; the same bar close to Scully’s, then on to her bed. 

He’d hugged her goodnight on the threshold to her apartment, that first time. They both held on just a little too long, pulled back and looked at one another just a little too amorously. Cupping her jaw in his palm, he ran the pad of his thumb across her cheek, prompting her to tilt her chin; meet him as he leaned down and kissed her. 

The rest was fervent and messy and passionate. Clothes torn, footing lost as they laughed and fumbled; backward stepped to the bedroom, attached at the lips. Fingers, hands, mouths exploring; stroking and licking and rubbing and sucking those places once forbidden. Pushing, pressing, thrusting. Panting and whimpering, calling their names, affirming the Divine. Then sweaty and spent, passed out, tangled in the sheets and one another.

In the morning, they blamed the Tanqueray Dry, the emotions of the tough case, agreed that they could put it behind them. Move on.

Until the end of their next case and a seemingly innocent suggestion of a quick drink once their plane had landed; _it was early. Why not?_

So they did.

Then fell into bed and into one another, again. 

Scully had become comfortable with what they had started by tucking it neatly away, in an old compartment—where she had kept her previous prohibitive relationships, her Daddy issues. Boundaries and rules, keeping her in check—just one time, after each case. Where they would cocoon themselves, hide from the monsters, the horrors jointly witness—escape for a night, in the sanctuary of each other.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Until...

Something happened. _Someone._ Waltzing in and bursting Scully’s bubble with her spiked heels and double D’s.

A revealing conversation with The Lone Gunmen had left a lump in her throat and a pain in her chest. She couldn’t swallow, couldn’t eat. Finding out that Mulder had had a relationship with another of his female colleagues, setting her mind into overdrive. 

Mortification engulfed her whenever her mind masochistically picked over what they had been doing. Self-condemnation that she had allowed herself to get carried away. To possibly think that he might love her, in return. She had allowed herself to indulge in the notion that maybe they were made for one another.

Their jobs required that they experience the most peculiar, most unbelievable, of things. Life-threatening, dangerous, traumatic things. Was their bond purely through circumstance and tragedy? Comfort in a shared understanding? Did her connection with Mulder only exist by accident? Randomly designed by Section Chief Blevins years ago, and shoved into the darkness together by chance. Were they not in fact, soul mates? Instead, both suffering from a kind of twisted Stockholm syndrome—held hostage as the only two witnesses to the horror of their collective history.

She felt like such a fool.

His one in fucking five billion. 

~

“Um,” he hesitated, standing at the arrivals cab rank with her, home from their first away case since Diana, and she knew he had sensed a shift.

“Share a cab?” He ventured, moving to rest an arm across her shoulders, just as one pulled up in front of them. Moving from him, she opened the door, putting it between them. 

“No. Mulder,” she couldn’t meet his eyes, she shook her head and threw her bag in the back seat, began to climb in after it. “I’m not doing that again.” 

“Scully?”

“It was a mistake, Mulder. We should never have started,” she said abruptly and closed the door before he could rebut. Cursing the traitorous tears that slipped down her cheeks, she fought everything inside to not turn back and look at him as she sped home, alone. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FICTOBER Day 30 - Prompt: “did I ask?”
> 
> What happened after Scully left Mulder at the airport?

Awoken, the clock read 2:48; a rhythm, a distant incessant banging, the culprit. Rising, she wrapped herself in her robe. Followed the sounds through her darkened apartment. Cracking the front door opened, chain pulling taut, he was out there. Of course, he was. Sighing, she closed the door, unhooked the restraint, and opened it enough to slip out. Sitting opposite her door, he had a tennis ball in hand—the source of the noise. Shutting herself out there with him, she sank down cross-legged on the floor, facing him, her back up against the door. Sighing deeply, he looked across at her, with that lost puppy look he would get. Presenting her palm to him, he rolled her the ball.

“Why are you here?” she asked and bowled it back.

“Why did you leave ... at the airport?” he retorted, dolefully; serving the ball back to her.

Catching it, she allowed her head to fall onto the door, it thumped as she exhaled, regarding the ceiling. “I just...” she hesitated, licking her lips and letting her eyes sink closed. 

They hadn’t talked about what they had been doing, both just allowed it to happen. Unfold without discussion or plan—or a future. Or a past. A reward for enduring their stressful jobs, their complicated lives. They spent hours on foreplay, that would sometimes start on the plane ride home from their latest case. They were passionate, and fervent, gentle and reverent, and they would delight in the afterglow, in each other. Caressing and kissing, embracing all night. Had she fooled herself into thinking he might love her? How she felt for him; was _that_ love?

Drawing in a deep breath, she looked back at him, shuffling the ball between her hands. “We work together,” was all she offered.

“Ah, we work together,” he repeated, mimicking her, making a ‘come here’ gesture with his hand.

“Mulder,” she sighed, returning the ball.

“Your point?” he pressed.

“—Mulder. We got too comfortable.” She had commandeered the ball again, began picking at the fluff.

“Too comfortable. For what?”

Scully scoffed, assumed he was deliberately being glib. “You know,” she responded firmly, “it’s just too complicated … _now_.”

“Now?”

Arching a brow, they stared at one another; a silent conversation. They had a way about them; could always be more honest without words. Chewing her lip, she felt suddenly hot—oh, the effect he could have on her, with just a look, his mere proximity. 

Nodding, he soothed, “I’m sorry?” A question. 

“For what?” she quizzed, returning the ball to him. Wanting to hear him say it. 

“Scully,” he said, an appeal. 

“What, Mulder?” she hung her head, shaking it. “Go home,” she concluded, standing up.

“Wait,” he implored, rising too. He bit his lip, hesitated and slowly stepped up to her. “I should have told you? Is that why you’re mad?”

“Mulder. No. Forget it,” she said, weary. 

“I, I ... don’t understand,” he responded, exasperated.

“Did I ask if you’d fucked any other of your colleagues, that you worked on the X-Files with?” she fired at him. “No. I didn’t. So why _would_ you tell me?” She pushed the ball into his hand, turned and went to grab the handle. But he was behind her, hand over the doorknob, breathing down her neck, pressing her against the door. 

Her eyes sunk closed. 

“Scully,” he pleaded.

“Go home, Mulder,” she said again, in a low voice, though her body subverted, pushed back into him, onto him. He was hard behind her, and she felt him pulse, press against her arse.

“You dated someone you worked with Scully. A superior.” He began kissing her, brushed her hair from her neck, and kissed under her ear.

“That’s different Mulder” she managed, wiggling somewhat free and turning within the frame he and her door had around her. 

Kissing her jaw, he continued, “why is it different?”

“I told you about Jack,” she panted.

Swapping sides, he gently swiped his tongue along her jaw, started pulling on the sash of her robe.

“Not before I chanced on meeting him, you didn’t,” he breathed, kissing the corner of her mouth.

“Well,” she began, but he was rendering her speechless, not least because of his annoyingly rational arguments—it was hard to retort with a tongue in your mouth. 

His hand was in her robe, and he was kissing her—she didn't want him to, _and_ she didn't want anything more in her life. So, she kissed him back, mouths opened, tongues engaged, lips pushing and sliding.

“That was such a long time ago, Mulder,” she said, abruptly breaking free of his mouth, “and you and I weren’t sleeping together.”

His hand was inching into her pyjama bottoms, teasing at the waistband of her underwear. “Scully, I don’t know all of your dating history; everyone you were with before we met.”

“But Mulder...” she protested.

Drawing back from her, he held her face, “I’m _here_ now, in front of _you_.”

She ducked her head hiding from him, biting her lips and the stupid emotion that was just under the surface. She sniffed sharply and he collected her chin, her gaze, tipped her face to meet his. “What?” he implored, “what is it?”

“I saw you.”

Confusion spread across his face as he searched; his eyes darting between hers. 

“Saw me?”

“With her.”

“What?” he puzzled, stepping right up into her so that her back bumped against the door. He slipped his hands around her neck, cupping the back of her head.

“You held her hand,” she said in a tiny voice. Even as it came out of her mouth, it sounded pathetic. They were just fucking after all, and here she was grilling him about hand-holding. 

“What?”

“In that room, when I met her, with Gibson,” she confessed in a whisper.

Realisation flooded his features, and she could no longer meet his gaze, so she thumped the top of her head to his chest.

Smoothing her hair, he rubbed the nape of her neck. “Scully, _she_ grabbed my hand, I … Scully, it’s ... there’s nothing between us. I don’t want her.”

“You want me?” she charged, head snapping back up. “Want to fuck _me_? Am I better in bed? More flexible. Give better head, like a good catholic girl?” she chastised. “I’m going inside.”

Without looking at his expression, emotion prickling in her throat, she twisted within the structure of his arms, opening her door. “Go home,” she told him dejectedly and then made it inside, all but shutting the door when she heard him say something. 

“I don’t love _her._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will write more of this... xxx
> 
> I'll be posting something new each day in October for Fictober from this tumblr [prompt list](https://fictober-event.tumblr.com/post/628547358001594368/fictober-event-the-prompts-for-2020%22).
> 
> Subscribe to the series [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951573)
> 
> Thank you for reading. Comments most welcome 💕

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be posting something new each day in October for Fictober from this tumblr [prompt list](https://fictober-event.tumblr.com/post/628547358001594368/fictober-event-the-prompts-for-2020%22).
> 
> Subscribe to the series [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951573)
> 
> Thank you for reading. Comments most welcome 💕


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